


Novelty

by snowyfoxpaws



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cat Ears, Cat/Human Hybrids, M/M, Magical Accidents, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:24:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowyfoxpaws/pseuds/snowyfoxpaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England accidentally magics himself half-cat and America has his way with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Novelty

**Author's Note:**

> _No, I do not have a Wattpad. Any works of mine, including this one, posted on Wattpad are done so without my knowledge or consent._

America isn’t sure why or how it’s happened, but really he doesn’t actually  _care_ because his fingers are too busy rubbing at the soft fur of a sharply pointed ear as he watches England squirm.

"S- stop— stop that, you insufferable—,"

The protests fall flat, however, because the smaller nation’s back is arching slightly as he curls his nails into the cup of the unnatural little fold where fur meets scalp and he swears there’s a soft sort rumbling noise but god knows England’ll deny the hell out of something like that.

A hand tugs his away with a sharp yank and, if he hadn’t the mind to loosen his grasp, he’s almost afraid he would have pulled that cute thing right out from those unruly locks, but venomous slit-eyes are glowering at him and he’s momentarily distracted by their eerie sheen.

England really _does_  make an adorable cat.

Or cat _man_ , rather, because he’s not a cat in body or spirit, just insomuch as there’re soft little ears and a curled, fluffy tail that stick out from his body as though they simply belong there, the fur unruly in that just so fashion that matches his hair.

"Stop it." England says and, oh, there’s that lower lip sticking out slightly. He’s pouting.

America can’t help the grin that sneaks its way onto his own face as he leans in uncomfortably close. “No.”

Thick brows knit at that. “ _Yes_.” England corrects shortly, staunchly standing firm.

Shaking his head, America just laughs. “I’m not sure what you did,” and he doesn’t really believe in magic enough to buy that it was the cause, “but this looks like fun.”

"It’s not fun." England informs him, as though he has any say at all in the matter. "Not at all. I need to reverse this as soon as possible."

"Sure, sure…" America drawls, moving in to get an arm around the other nation, the flat of his hand trailing down the back of a knitted sweater. Triumphant, his fingers find the base of the tail.

England practically yowls at him when he tugs it—not yelps,  _yowls_. It’s a human sound but only just barely and America’s not sure what to make of it but he gets a little idea in his head and in moments he lifts the other man up like he weighs nothing and starts to carry him further into the old, English home.

"Quit it— I never— this is _highly_  inappropriate and I—,”

America drops him unceremoniously onto his own bed and England is scrambling to sit upright but he’s too late because the larger nation flops down on top of him and he can hear the other give a winded oof as they settle into the mattress.

"Prat." England grounds out, tugging at him.

Adjusting his hold, America shifts until he has England pinned against his side rather than beneath him, the other man’s head resting on the crook of his arm. When he wrinkles his nose, America wonders vaguely if he’s going to complain about the scent of his deodorant for the nth time.

He doesn’t though. Instead he moves a little bit—just enough to get comfortable—before glaring up at America. “What are you doing?”

"Mmm…" America has to think about it for a moment, because he’s really not entirely sure himself. "Y’know, I might be more of a dog person, but cats are okay too." He says, his fingers finding one of those fuzzy ears again and scratching at the base of it. He can practically feel England melt.

"It’s just a spell gone wrong." The smaller nation says weakly, still unwilling to admit that he’s enjoying this. It’s obvious though. That little tail is twitching all happy like. England’s probably completely unaware of it. "It’s temporary. I’m going to fix it soon."

"Are you?" America mused.

"You don’t believe me, do you?" England asked him, clearly annoyed.

"I dunno." He admitted. "But if it’s gonna go away, maybe I should take advantage of it while it’s still here."

England’s already moving to protest but he shushes him with a kiss, drawing in those pale lips with his, cool to the feel, and warming them, soothing them, until the other nation unwinds enough to let him into where he’s warm and vulnerable and sweet, and America coaxes his tongue out to play.

It feels…  _rougher_  than normal and he’s not sure whether or not he should have expected that. Like a cat’s tongue only not nearly so sand paper-y. It’s a little strange, to be honest, but the way England’s curling into him, fingers gripping his upper arm, distracts him from that oddity and makes him focus more on working off all of this obnoxious clothing.

Naked, England almost looks weirder than he does clothed.

The tail just sort of curves out from the top of his butt, as though his spine had decided to just keep going, and it’s long too— longer than you’d really expect, as though proportioned to his body like it might be on a real cat. He toys with it a little bit, watching England watch him, amused when he finds that where the fur meets the skin is  _especially_  sensitive.

A little bit of lube later and he’s convinced the other nation to lay on the bed with his hind quarters up in the air, legs parted, tail bent over firm cheeks like some kind of furry guard. America moves it and soon enough he’s got England tugging at the bedspread as he fingers him, dragging every inch of his digits along inside of him and making him beg. It’s fun, this part—watching his once-mentor come so completely undone that he forgets pretense and tells him to just get on with it already.

Which would be silly, of course. America doesn’t want to hurt him. So he takes his sweet time, working him up and then down and then up again, until there’s sweat beading on his back and that tail is doing its best to whip him in the face.

Through all of this, he’s just grateful England’s cock isn’t barbed.

The best part, however, is when he finally gets himself up in his lover, as deep as he can go, and there’s this noise he makes as America starts to pull out and then draw back in again, that sounds like a very vague sort of meow. He’s not sure whether or not England knows he’s doing it, but in that moment he can only wonder if he’s been tricked into another one of the Erotic Ambassador’s little kinks. He feels aroused and dirty all at once. And, frankly, the latter only serves to make him feel  _more_  aroused.

Perverted old man.

Still, America grips his hips firmly, musing that it’s not really  _doggy_  style if one of the participants is a cat, and tugs him back hard, making England, well… yowl.

_Sort of_.

It’s something between that and a moan, but it’s loud—louder than England normally is—and it’s immediately obvious that the other man is embarrassed which only prompts America to plunge in again.

England’s entire back arches as he presses into the motion, so he takes the opportunity to lean over him, aware of the fluffy appendage wriggling against his lower stomach as he tugs a handful of hair to get at a stray ear. The way the other nation shudders as he thumbs it, stroking the cartilage, makes him grin.

Then he grabs the back of England’s neck like someone might a real cat and suddenly the muscles beneath him relax. He would have been worried if not for that strange expression of erotic bliss that flickers across those stern features, half the other nation’s face pressed into the bed and the other half struggling to settle on any one particular emotion.

He wants to do more—to explore England and all these new little quirks—but he can’t help himself. They fall into a perfect rhythm and he comes, jerking his cat-eared lover to completion and shivering at the way the other man’s walls press down on his own length, gripping him as the two of them make a fine mess of the sheets.

England’s gasping, sated, collapsed on the bed as he gives America a rather nonthreatening scowl, “I can’t… _believe_  you…”

America just beams at him as he pulls out, fingers toying with that loosened hole, making England twitch and painting a heart onto the side of his butt with semen. The other nation is too tired to be appalled, which is slightly disappointing really.

"Git." England mumbles, but his ears and tail are twitching, giving away even more than he usually does, and America curls up at his back, spooning him. The smaller man eases into it and then settles.

He contents himself with stroking a lazy ear. “These are cute.” He comments.

"Hm."

"Are you falling asleep?" America teases, feeling the slim body in his arms relax.

"Piss off." England grumbles lightly, turning his head which, coincidentally, shifts his ear into a better position for America’s fingers.

Chuckling, he says nothing, watching as, soon enough, even that happy, little tail of his calms, the other nation’s breathing evening out into soft rasps of air.

And  _oh_.

There’s that gentle noise again. So quiet it’s hardly even there.

Purring.

America presses his nose into the fringe of the other nation’s hair and just stays like that for however long.

He’s not sure why, exactly, England is a cat today, but he finds that he kind of likes it.


End file.
